Stray
by BSparrow
Summary: "She'd lured him in like a stray, with warm smiles and kind words..." Carol and Daryl search for happiness together but it seems like there is always something standing in their way. Caryl AU inspired by a suggestion from the wonderful laceknee on Tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

"It's okay to touch me. I want you to."

"I-I don't know how…"

The words were spoken so quietly, so innocently, that it knocked the breath right out of her lungs.

She'd first seen him at the garage where she got the Cherokee serviced. He was bent over under the hood of a Chevy pickup and had reached up to wipe sweat off his forehead, leaving a streak of black grease across his face.

She knew his name was Daryl. Not because he told her but because she'd seen the embroidered patch on his work shirt.

She thought he was handsome in that rugged, tousled kind of way that had always caught her eye. Dirty golden-brown hair, electric blue eyes, and broad shoulders. There was something so attractive about a man who wasn't afraid of getting dirty, who was capable with his hands.

Her husband was useless when it came to mechanical endeavors or repairs. He called a plumber every time the kitchen sink got stopped up.

Her first attempt at friendly conversation with the boy named Daryl had fallen flat. He was like a wild animal, feral and skittish. He'd scramble away or curl into himself to avoid physical contact with anyone and everyone. And he never smiled. Not even once.

She knew him immediately. She recognized the signs. She should, after all. She'd lived in the same sort of hell for the past five years and her heart ached for him. He had to be in his early twenties, somewhere between five and ten years her junior, and she wondered who'd done the damage.

Somewhere along the way, her feelings evolved from simple attraction to an almost painful, desperate longing. He reminded her so much of a scruffy, wet puppy in an alley. She just wanted to wrap him up in her arms and take him home.

So she'd taken the Cherokee back again and again to have the boy chase down phantom squealing noises under the hood and imaginary clanking sounds. If he was suspicious of her pathetic attempt at subterfuge, he never said. He just nodded stoically every time and popped the hood, ducking his head to avoid eye contact.

It took her four visits just to get him to talk to her, eight to get even the slightest hint of a smile out of him, and a year to get him to this point. She'd lured him in like a stray, with warm smiles and kind words, and now here he was.

Standing in her bedroom, looking as terrified as a wild animal in a cage.

She knew she should be ashamed, should feel guilty about being unfaithful to her husband despite the glaring evidence of his countless infidelities. But she couldn't bring herself to feel anything but that damn longing. Longing for affection, for a gentle touch with no fear of pain. She could see the same need in the boy's eyes even though he tried desperately to cover it with a tough, unapproachable exterior.

He didn't seem so tough now. His mouth was slack, his breathing shallow. His calloused hands were trembling, hovering just at her waist. She watched his Adam's apple bob, his throat tight, but his hands didn't move.

She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be wanted by a man, needed by a man. To be looked at with desire instead of disgust and rage. She needed to remember, even if it was just for a little while.

So she reached out and showed him, moving his hand up under her shirt and across her ribs to cup her breast, still firmly encased in white cotton.

He sucked in a sharp breath, fingers clenching automatically at the softness beneath them, and she couldn't help but smile.

His lips pressed together tight as his eyes sought out hers and then he looked away quickly, focusing on the movement of his fingers under her shirt.

Her nimble fingers released the buttons on his shirt and spread it open wide, as far off his broad shoulders as his bent arms would allow.

He froze, grimacing, and as her eyes moved across the span of his chest, she realized why.

He was covered in scars. Some of them were old, white and faded, while others were newer, still shiny pink.

He tried to pull away, ripping his hand out from beneath her shirt, but she gripped his elbows and held on tight.

"Wait! Wait, it's okay!" she said almost desperately, releasing his arms to yank her own shirt off over her head, "Look, see, it's okay."

He peered at her body through squinted eyes and she knew what he saw. Small breasts, jutting ribs and hipbones, and pale skin mottled with bruises like a banana peel.

His eyebrows rushed together, his forehead wrinkling as he reached out to brush his fingertips against a particularly vicious-looking deep purple discoloration above her ribs.

"See, it's okay," she whispered again, capturing his extended hand and drawing him closer.

He met her eyes, searching for something within them, and she pressed a kiss against his chapped lips. He didn't protest and she took the opportunity to push his shirt down off his shoulders. He let it flutter to the floor.

She pulled him close, lips moving down his jaw to press against his neck. Her tongue snaked out to trace across his salty skin and she felt him relax against her, burying his nose in her short hair. She could feel his breath, wet and hot against her scalp.

His hands spread out across the small of her back, holding her against him, but whether it was to comfort her or himself she didn't know. She found herself clinging to him, somehow steadied by his presence, as she kissed her way down his chest.

Her fingers moved across his soft belly, following along with the trail of downy golden-brown hair that led her to his waistband, and she reached for his belt.

He toed off his boots and she had just pushed his jeans down off his hips when they both heard the front door open.

Their heads shot up at the same time, wide eyes meeting.

"My husband," she gasped, and saw the blood drain from the boy's face.

He cursed, stooping over to pick up his discarded jeans and boots. She grabbed up his shirt and caught him by the arm, dragging him behind her into the bathroom. She could hear Ed calling out her name as she pressed the door closed as quietly as possible.

When she turned, she found Daryl staring at her with wide, terrified eyes and an armful of clothing.

She reached out for him and his arms fell open, the clothing slipping to the floor. They both winced as his boots hit the tile with a loud thump.

She pushed him into the tub, shoving firmly on his shoulders until he got the hint and sat down, too frightened to protest.

"Carol!"

She heard Ed getting closer and dropped down onto her ass right in front of Daryl, crossing her legs so her bony knees were jammed against the hard, cold porcelain.

"Carol!" Ed called out again, sounding like he was in the bedroom this time.

Her eyes fell on the closed door and, to her horror, she realized she hadn't locked it. He could throw it open at any moment and see her sitting in their bathtub, half-naked, with a strange man.

On instinct, she reached around behind her back and flipped on the faucet. Icy cold water flooded into the tub, pooling around her legs and ass, and she heard the boy gasp. She reached out to steady him, hands on his warm shoulders. His piercing eyes met hers and she tried to smile, tried to comfort him even though she felt nauseous.

"Carol? You in there?"

Ed was suddenly at the door, his angry voice reverberating off the thin wood. Daryl's shoulders stiffened under her fingers, his eyes squeezing shut.

She sucked in a deep breath, steeling herself to keep her voice from trembling, "I'm taking a bath, Ed!"

There was silence for a moment. The sound of the water pouring into the tub seemed deafening in the small, tiled room. She noticed that Daryl didn't dare breathe; he seemed to be frozen solid.

"At this time of day? What the hell did I tell you about the damn water bill?"

She winced, expecting him to throw the door open and slap her across the face. But he didn't.

"I-I'm sorry!" she called out automatically, fingers digging into the boy's shoulders as she searched desperately for a plausible scenario, "I got all sweaty carrying the groceries in earlier."

He scoffed at that and she knew he was thinking she was a weak, pathetic creature who never did anything right. She knew that was what he was thinking because he'd told her so often enough.

"Well, get your ass out here and fix me some dinner, woman!"

She shuddered as his volume inched up another notch. Her eyes were fixed on the shiny golden doorknob, still expecting it to turn at any moment.

"Okay! Just a minute, I need to shave my legs!"

He snarled in disgust and both she and Daryl jumped as he kicked the door, rattling it on its hinges.

"Fuck this! If you're just gonna lay on your ass in the tub all day I'm going out! I'll find my own damn dinner, you worthless bitch!"

She heard his footsteps stomping back through the bedroom and out into the hallway, heard him muttering curses under his breath, and knew there would be hell to pay when he got home. She could only thank her lucky stars that he wanted to make her wait, wanted her to anticipate her suffering.

When she heard the front door slam shut she pressed her forehead to Daryl's, feeling almost weak with relief. His skin was feverishly hot against hers. She slipped her hands up around his neck, running her fingers through his soft brown hair, now damp with sweat. With a start, she realized his whole body was trembling.

She leaned back to catch his eye and he looked away, teeth chewing at his bottom lip.

They both opened their mouth to speak at the same time before pausing and falling silent again.

Taking in his burning red cheeks and guilt-ridden expression, she finally whispered, "I'm sorry about that."

He nodded sharply and tried to stand, feet sliding on the slippery porcelain. Gazing up at his tight jaw and clenched fists, she knew the moment was gone but she didn't want to let it go that easily. Not yet.

"He-he's gone now...probably won't be back for a while," she offered light-heartedly, tilting her head back to stare up at him towering over her.

His eyes narrowed, his expression turning incredulous, "You serious, lady?"

She looked away, focusing instead on the narrow rivulets of water trickling down his pale legs.

He stepped out of the tub, scrounging around on the floor for his clothes as she shut the running water off.

"I-I can't do this," he said, his voice low and gruff, "I gotta go."

She'd expected him to say that really, but she couldn't help but sigh at hearing the words said out loud. The boy pulled his pants on over his wet legs and soaked boxers, then sat down on the side of the tub to pull on his boots. She leaned back and watched him; the muscles across his scarred back and shoulders rippling as he tugged at his laces.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes and just shook his head, reaching out for his shirt.

She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to shudder against the cold porcelain and cold water soaking through her pants.

She heard his knees crack as he stood up. Heard him clear his throat.

"Think it's safe to go out the front?"

She opened her eyes to find him standing over her, his gaze lingering on her bruised midsection.

"You should probably go out the back way. I-I can drive you back-"

He cut her off quickly, "Don't worry about it."

She nodded, heaving another sigh as her eyes fluttered closed again. She didn't know why she had ever thought this would work. She wasn't the kind of woman who could pull something like this off and now she felt awful for dragging another damaged person into her disturbing reality.

She heard the boy's heavy footsteps on the tile and said again, "I am sorry, you know."

She heard him pause and take a deep breath before he replied, "Me too."


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't waste a whole lot of his time thinking about that strange woman who had taken him home with her.

He didn't lie awake at night, alone in an empty bed in an empty trailer, remembering how her hair had tickled his nose or how it had smelled like roses when he'd nuzzled his face against the top of her head.

His fingers sure as hell didn't tingle when he remembered the weight of her breast in his palm and how soft her skin had been. He didn't remember how her lips had tasted or how her warm, wet tongue had felt sliding against his own.

He still wasn't sure how he had ended up at her house that day. It had all happened too quickly and his mouth was so dry and his brain had sort of short-circuited when she touched him and she had felt so soft, so good. Being with her was the closest he'd ever been to having sex and it was scary as hell but it was…good.

The woman wasn't sexy per se. She was a little too scrawny, a little too pale, and a little too pensive to be called that. But what she was, he thought, was too good for him. She was beautiful. Elegant, like some kind of queen.

Well, until she'd shoved him half-naked into a tub full of cold water and forced him to hide from her husband. Maybe that wasn't so elegant or queenly.

But hell, he couldn't fool himself. He'd known she was married from the start. He wasn't blind after all. He saw the golden ring gleaming on that skinny finger. But knowing she was married and hearing her asshole of a husband screaming at her from two feet away were two different things.

He didn't know if it was guilt over having broken some kind of moral code, some kind of sanctity of marriage bullshit, or if it was just plain fear that had driven him away. But it was something too damn overwhelming for him to deal with, especially in front of her with her kind eyes and soft touch, and he'd lit out of there like his ass was on fire.

He'd never been sure how to handle women and their soft little hands. It was easier to just run away. But that poor woman had been through hell too. She never even flinched when she saw the scars riddling his ugly hide and he knew that was because she had plenty of her own. Hers were fresher than his too.

It didn't matter though. Maybe he _had_ enjoyed touching her, kissing her, but he told himself over and over he didn't need that kind of baggage. She probably wanted to cry on his shoulder. Probably wanted him to save her like some kind of white knight but hell, he hadn't even been able to save himself.

So no, he didn't waste his time thinking about her. And he sure as hell didn't look for that old piece of shit Cherokee every time a new customer pulled into the parking lot.

Or maybe he was just kidding himself because he sure as hell saw it the minute she turned off the main road and rolled up in front of the garage. It had been a month, almost to the day.

He tugged his grease rag out of his back pocket and wiped his hands clean, watching her shield her eyes from the bright mid-afternoon sun as she picked her way across the dirty parking lot. He didn't cross the garage to meet her as she walked towards him, wearing a warm smile as if nothing had happened. But he held her eyes and he didn't run away. He could give her that much at least.

"Hey, how are you?" she asked in a wavering voice as she stopped in front of him, reaching up with trembling fingers to fiddle with the gold cross dangling at her throat.

He noticed the cast on her wrist immediately.

"Better'n you, I reckon," he mumbled, nodding his head at it.

She dropped her hand back to her side, a rosy flush spreading across her pale cheeks.

"I fell down the stairs."

He just snorted at that, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn't stupid.

She hesitated for a moment, clearing her throat before she continued, "So…what's new?"

"You here to make small talk?" he asked with a frown, taking in her red cheeks and nervous fidgeting.

She looked surprised, "Uh, no. No, I guess-I guess I'm here to see if you hate me."

His head snapped up at that, "What?"

"I-I thought you might hate me after what happened and I couldn't stand the thought-"

"Aw hell, woman," he scoffed, cutting her off with an irritated shrug of his shoulders.

She bit her bottom lip, pearly teeth piercing pink flesh, and the thought crossed his mind that she looked really pretty doing that.

"I've thought about you a lot, you know," her voice was barely a whisper, a little unsteady as if she was confessing some deep, dark secret, "About what might have happened if Ed hadn't come home when he did."

And with those words, he felt a giddy, fizzy ache spreading through his chest. Kind of like he'd swallowed a balloon that was trying to float away inside him. Heat flooded into his cheeks as she peered up at him through the fan of her eyelashes and he suddenly heard himself coughing, choking on his own spit like an idiot.

She jumped at the sudden noise, glancing up at him, and he saw the corners of her mouth twitch like she was trying to hide a smile. A smile at his expense.

Embarrassed, he turned away quickly, clenching his grease rag in his hand until his knuckles ached. He was just waiting for her to laugh at him. To mock him for being the clumsy, stupid loser he knew himself to be.

"He's on a hunting trip with his brother this week," she said instead, her voice sounding steadier now, "In Montana."

He sneaked a glance over his shoulder and found her eyes focused firmly on the nude model thrusting her breasts out from the calendar fluttering on the garage wall.

"You sure about that?" he asked wryly, cringing a little inside when his voice came out a notch higher than usual.

She chuckled, meeting his eyes before he could look away. He swallowed hard, his throat feeling strangely tight.

"If you want, we could maybe…try again."

Her tone was light. Sweet even.

But her words were like a punch to the gut. He froze, the muscles in his back and shoulders bunching up tight as his body tensed.

Maybe it was stupid but he felt pure fear coursing through his veins. He didn't know what she wanted from him, didn't know what she expected of him, and didn't know why she had even picked him out of all the other men in this town.

But his fingertips still tingled with the phantom feel of her soft, warm skin beneath them. And he could still imagine the tickle of her hair, the feel of her lips. Her touch was just about the only nice memory he could recall, regardless of how it had turned out in the end.

So he clenched his fists, fighting against every instinct inside himself for maybe the first time in his life, and forced the words out before he lost his nerve.

"I get off at 5."

* * *

She parked the Cherokee under the tall pines just outside town, down by the river.

He stared out the windshield at the black water lazily creeping by, littered with dead leaves and empty beer cans, and then looked over at her curiously.

"This is where everybody used to 'go parking' when I was in high school," she smiled over at him, "Make-out City, you know. Was it the same place for your class?"

He just shrugged. He wouldn't know but he didn't want to tell her that he'd never made it to high school.

"I thought it might be weird to go back to my house," she continued, looking down at her hands, "To the bed that I share with…him."

He nodded automatically, trying to look like he understood even though he didn't. Did that mean she'd changed her mind? That she just wanted to sit here and talk about high school and her husband?

He looked over at her and, with a start, realized she was leaning towards him across the center console. He jumped back against the door, smacking his head against the window as her face stopped just inches away from his.

"Hey, it's okay," she said softly, reaching for him slowly, "Come here."

Her small hand was warm against his face as she caressed his cheek, soft fingertips brushing across his rough stubble. He felt her fingers move across the muscle twitching in his tightly clenched jaw as she slid her hand around to the back of his head. He felt the slightest pressure, urging him forward to meet her.

He trembled as her lips pressed against his own. Her face blurred in front of him, a vague swirl of pale white, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight to stop his head from spinning.

He knew he must be doing something wrong. He hadn't had many real kisses. He just didn't know what to do or where to put his hands.

She sighed softly into his mouth, a breathy little moan that made something deep within him squirm to life, and he tried to pull away. Only her hand stopped him, insistent and firm against the base of his skull.

Her other hand came to rest on his shoulder and he felt the rough brush of her cast against his neck. The images of how she must have gotten it, a faceless man screaming through a bathroom door, flooded into his brain and he jerked away roughly, sucking in a ragged breath.

Her hands on either side of his face brought him back and he focused in on her, on her worried expression and parted lips. Her clear blue eyes had grown darker in a way he couldn't put his finger on.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, scooting closer in her seat as he swallowed hard and nodded.

He could almost hear his big brother's voice in his head telling him to man up, to shove his hand up her shirt and just take what the hell he wanted. To stop caring, to not give a damn about looking stupid in front of her. But the soft press of her lips against his heated forehead melted all that away and it was just him and her.

"You sure you want to do this?" she asked softly, running her fingers through his hair.

He leaned into her touch, enjoying the gentle scratch of her fingernails against his scalp, and caught sight of that damned ring on her finger.

"Are _you _sure?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

With the dying sunlight dancing gold across her features, she smiled and dipped her head, "Very sure."

He was suddenly mesmerized by the look in her eye and the heat in her touch as she leaned in to kiss him again. There was something different about it this time. Something certain about it that he didn't understand.

He was still reeling when she pulled away and climbed gracefully into the backseat, shedding her shirt along the way. She settled in and kicked off her shoes, smile widening as she beckoned to him.

And then he was scrambling over the console, twisting his body around awkwardly in his hurry to join her.

She laughed, a sound as clear as glass, and opened her arms to him. And then it was all warm skin and soft sighs, steamed up windows and the smell of roses.


	3. Chapter 3

It had taken every bit of courage she had left inside her, a hidden little supply that Ed hadn't already drained away, to go down to that garage and face the man she hadn't been able to stop thinking about.

It had taken a month to build up the nerve, a month that she spent torturing herself over the best and worst case scenarios. She half-expected him to ignore her or tell her off or something equally mortifying. She knew that would just destroy her. But still she hadn't been able to face the idea of living out the rest of her life without having tried again. Without knowing for sure.

Driving across town had been difficult, with shaky hands and a stomach full of butterflies, but walking across the garage to face him was nearly impossible.

But oh my, was she ever glad that she did it.

When Daryl had finally gotten over the fear and let himself go, it was all she could have hoped for. Tender and desperate, he'd clung to her like a drowning man hanging onto a life raft.

She'd never, ever felt the things she felt when she was with him. She'd never…reached the heights she reached with him. When she told him that, right after, he'd blushed furiously and buried his face in her neck. She'd felt the heat of his skin burning against hers and it made her heart thud wildly against her ribs.

It wasn't because of his sexual prowess; he was fumbling and unsure of himself. No, it was because of the sheer joy of actually being with him, in the flesh, after fantasizing about him for so long. It was because she was finally able to let go and experience pleasure without the usual fear of pain. And, maybe more than anything, it was because of the adoration in his eyes, the look of desire, and the expression on his face when he lost himself completely to her touch.

She'd been afraid he'd build his walls back up when it was over, that he wouldn't be able to look her in the eye after being so intimate. But he didn't. He didn't run away. Honestly, she was surprised by his enthusiasm once he let his mask slip. He was like a child underneath, all wide-eyed and eager to please.

They took full advantage of Ed's vacation. She had Daryl over every evening, as soon as he got off work. She couldn't imagine what the neighbors must think but surprisingly, she found she didn't much care.

Daryl would walk through the front door like he owned the place, covered in dirt and grease, and she'd send him straight to the shower while she cooked dinner. They'd sit down to eat, sneaking glances over their plates that made her giggle like a teenager. And then they'd cuddle up on the couch to watch TV like an old married couple. Well, she'd cuddle up to his side while he sat bolt upright, his arm stiff around her shoulders.

He slept next to her every night, stretched out in the tiny twin guest bed, and she could almost imagine that he belonged there. That they had a perfect life together.

Throughout the whole week, it felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. As if the sun had finally emerged after a long, dark winter. She hadn't been so happy since she was a teenager, back before she met Ed. And suddenly, the thought of losing the one bright spot in her life was too horrifying to imagine. Just considering it made her feel desperate and short of breath, like she was drowning.

But she knew it was rapidly coming to an end anyway and there was nothing she could do about it.

* * *

The day before Ed was due home was just like all the previous ones.

She'd waited around the house on pins and needles, pacing and cleaning and doing laundry, until she heard his pickup rumble up the drive.

He walked in with sweat stains on his shirt and grease stains on his hands but she didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around him and plant a kiss on his lips before sending him off to the bathroom.

He emerged from the shower with damp hair that she could tell he'd combed flat with his fingers. It was darker when it was wet, making him look older than the sun-bleached golden blonde she'd become accustomed to. He perched on the countertop, legs swinging like a kid, and she could smell the sharp, fresh scent of Irish Spring soap on his skin.

"My mom used to use that stuff," he said suddenly, nodding towards the taco seasoning on the counter, "I remember the little red packet. Stunk up the whole house."

She smiled up at him as he kicked his heels against the cabinets, "You don't talk about your family much."

He shrugged, eyes meeting hers quickly before flitting back to the stove, "Not much to talk about."

"Are they still around?"

"Nope."

She frowned, stirring the meat as it sizzled, "Where are they?"

"Dead. Jail. Gone."

She reached up to turn down the heat, eyeing him curiously, "Well, which is it?"

He huffed out an irritated breath, kicking the cabinet a little harder, "My mom's dead. Brother's in jail. My dad's just…gone."

"Oh," she took in his pained expression and reached out to squeeze his knee, "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," he chewed his lip, falling silent for a moment as she moved to drain the hamburger meat over the sink, "How 'bout your folks?"

"What about them?" she asked absently as the grease trickled down the drain.

"They know what your husband does to you?"

She almost dropped the pan in her surprise, sucking in a sharp breath as she caught it at the last second.

"They had me late in life. They're…old. And sick."

"So?"

She poured the hamburger into a bowl and stirred in the taco seasoning, feeling the heat of his gaze on her back as she opted to change the subject.

"Alright, grab some plates out of that cabinet. Dinner is served."

* * *

Later that night, snuggled up to his side on the couch, she laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart pounding beneath her ear.

She couldn't seem to keep her hands off of him, almost as if she was afraid he'd disappear at any moment. If he noticed, he didn't mention it.

His threadbare grey t-shirt was soft under her cheek. She could smell the sharp scent of him buried just under a fine layer of powdery fabric softener. He'd protested her doing his laundry at first but she knew she could be remarkably persistent. Tenacious even.

She glanced up at him, her eyes tracing over the slope of his forehead, the angle of his cheekbones, and the jut of his jaw. He was staring at the television but she knew he wasn't watching the stupid cop show flashing across the screen.

He peeked down at her out of the corner of his eye and his lips twitched upwards when she stretched up to press a kiss against his rough cheek.

It was such a sweet moment but like any other, it couldn't last. The words were out of her mouth and hanging in the air between them before she even thought about it.

"Ed's coming back tomorrow."

The little hint of a smile evaporated from his lips and his jaw tightened but he just nodded.

"He called today," she added, clenching at the hem of his t-shirt so she could rub her thumb absently against the warm skin of his belly, "Said he'd be in around noon."

Eyes still on the television, he asked quietly, carefully, "You staying?"

She thought of her perfect week of playing house with Daryl and pretending Ed didn't exist. She thought of that coming to an end, sucking her back into the darkness that was her life before him, and her heart ached. Her throat seemed to tie itself in a painful knot as she swallowed hard, fighting back the tears.

"I guess so."

His eyes narrowed but he didn't look at her. She could almost hear the unasked question. Why?

"I-I don't love Ed. Not anymore. I think that died the first time he raised his hand to me. But I've been married to him for five years and I just…I need more time."

She felt the tears overflowing, running hot down her cheeks. He didn't say anything but she knew he didn't understand and she couldn't find the words that would help him make sense of it. Maybe she didn't understand either.

But she knew she just couldn't pick up and leave. She wasn't brave enough or strong enough to throw away everything she knew for a tenuous, uncertain future no matter how much she wanted it. No matter how much she wanted Daryl. She was a woman with no skills, no money, and no assets.

Besides, she wasn't sure if Ed would ever allow her to escape. The morning after he'd first hit her, when he found her packing her stuff to run home to her parents, he'd threatened her. He'd told her she'd never leave him. That he'd never allow it. He didn't need to say any more and he didn't need to say it again. He had made himself clear the first time.

She wiped uselessly at her damp cheeks and through her swimming eyes saw him stretch the hem of his t-shirt up and offer it to her. A desperate giggle fell from her lips as she leaned over to wipe the tears from her face with the soft, worn material.

She laid her head back down on his chest, feeling it rise and fall with every breath, and heard his voice rumble through it as he spoke.

"So when am I gonna see you again?"


	4. Chapter 4

He never thought he'd be the domestic type. He hadn't had a woman cook for him, do his laundry, or clean up after him since he was a kid and he never thought he wanted it. He figured he'd hate having somebody looking out for him, that it would be suffocating and make him want to escape out into the quiet safety of the woods.

But with Carol, it wasn't like that at all. It was natural. Comfortable. Right.

Except for the fact that the food she'd been cooking for him and the washing machine she'd been washing his clothes in had both been bought with her husband's money. And the bathroom she had him washing up in was the same one her husband showered in every night. The same one, in fact, that he'd almost caught them in.

He'd tried not to dwell on that too much and it had been surprisingly easy to forget about it, to pretend that he belonged there with her.

But he didn't and he knew it.

The wrench in his hand slipped and his knuckles scraped against unforgiving metal and protruding bolts, splitting open the thin skin.

"Fuck," he hissed, dropping the damned wrench with a clatter and reaching for his grease rag.

"You know I don't like that word."

He looked up in surprise to see her leaning under the hood to smile at him, waving a brown paper bag as if to entice him away from the engine. She didn't need food to lead him away, her smile was enough.

But still she'd brought him lunch to the garage every day since Ed had gotten home. It was their only time together and even though it wasn't much he found himself looking forward to it every day.

He reached out to take the bag from her and she shook her hand, moving it just out of his reach.

"Oh, no you don't! Go wash your hands first."

He grunted his annoyance but did as he was told, scrubbing at his hands with the Lava soap until the skin was red and stinging.

He stepped out of the bathroom to find she'd unwrapped his sandwich for him and popped the tab on a cold can of Coke. He had to fight back the grin tugging at the corner of his lips when she turned towards him with a proud smile and patted the space beside her on the bench.

He sat just close enough to feel the soft warmth of her body at his side and took a big bite out of the sandwich, suddenly feeling hungry enough to eat a horse. The sandwich was ham with extra cheese on white bread, no pickles and no mayonnaise just like he liked it. She had even cut the crusts off even though he'd never asked her to. He would never have admitted he hated them. She just knew.

Just outside the open door, a chubby little boy in a baseball cap skipped across the parking lot after his father, giggling as he turned his face up towards the sun.

Daryl glanced over to find Carol smiling fondly, her eyes bright as they followed the kid across the lot.

"You'd make a good mama," he mumbled around a mouthful of food, averting his gaze abruptly as she turned that strange smile on him that made his chest feel tight.

"You think so?" she beamed, waiting for him to nod before she continued, "I've always wanted kids. Just…not now. Not with-"

She cut herself off, meeting his eyes sadly as he struggled to swallow and clear his throat.

"So, how about you then?" she asked after a moment, "You want kids?"

He snorted and took another bite out of his sandwich, "Wouldn't be fair to the little bastards to have a daddy that's dumb as a rock and ugly as sin."

The words tasted bad on his tongue and took him back to a time when his father was still around, wielding a belt and a venomous tongue.

Her head snapped towards him, her jaw dropping, and he felt a twinge of embarrassment at her shocked expression.

"You don't really believe that do you, Daryl?" she asked softly, her brows furrowed as she reached out to place her warm little hand on his arm.

He shrugged and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring down at the sandwich clutched in his hands because it was easier than meeting her eyes.

"Daryl, look at me," she said firmly and he felt her fingers on his jaw, tilting his face over towards hers, "You're not dumb and you sure aren't ugly. You're…you're just about the best man I've ever met."

He snorted again, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks, and tried to jerk his chin free of her grasp. But she was persistent, chasing his eyes with her own.

"You are," she told him decisively, "And I think you'd make a wonderful father."

He stilled under her gaze as her touch softened to caress his jaw and pat his cheek before falling away. It sounded like she meant those words and as much as he wanted to like the sound of them, they were too foreign. Too strange.

He swallowed hard and took another bite out of his sandwich even though he wasn't hungry anymore. It was suddenly like ash in his mouth.

They were quiet for a moment as he finished eating. Quiet enough to hear the laughter of that little boy as he followed his father back out to their car.

He caught Carol staring again, smiling as she watched the boy hopping up and down impatiently while his father unlocked the car door.

"I always wanted a house full of them," he heard her say wistfully, reaching up to fiddle with the cross around her neck.

He wasn't planning to say the words but they came out anyway.

"Maybe you'll get 'em someday."

She looked surprised for a moment and he almost chewed right through his bottom lip as she turned to stare at him. But then she just smiled, squeezed his knee, and looked back out at the parking lot.

* * *

He was standing in the open garage door waving goodbye to her when he heard footsteps approaching from behind.

He grimaced as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder but he didn't take his eyes off her until the Cherokee was out of sight.

Then he turned to see one of the other mechanics, a guy named Johnny, staring at him with an odd expression.

"Look at you, boy. Looks like you got it bad."

Daryl just grunted, shrugging the man's hand off his shoulder as he turned away from him. He didn't like Johnny, wasn't sure anybody liked that slimy bastard, and he sure as hell didn't intend to discuss his love life with him.

"And here we was all thinking you was some kind of monk. Celibate or some shit."

Daryl stooped over to pick up his tools, groaning internally as he heard Johnny's footsteps follow him.

"But tell me this, boy. Why you chasing after a married woman?"

He froze, the wrench slipping right out of his hand to land on top of the others before he snatched it up again.

"You did know she was married right? To Ed Petelier? She tell you that?"

Daryl didn't reply, didn't even acknowledge that he'd heard the man, but his heart was pounding. He didn't like where this was going.

"He's a mean sumbitch. Kin to the sheriff too, in case you didn't know."

He hadn't known. Not that it mattered.

"Guess I just wanted to say you might wanna be careful. Y'all ain't invisible, you know. Ain't being too sneaky either, sitting out here in the open where anybody could see you-"

That was it.

Daryl stood up abruptly, cutting the man off mid-sentence. His fists clenched, fingers tightening around the wrench resting in his palm until the cold metal bit into his flesh. The muscles in his shoulders and down his arm twitched as he fought the urge to slam the tool into the other man's face.

"You threatening me, asshole?" he spat out, taking a step forward until they were squared up, toe to toe.

Johnny threw his hands up and took a quick step backwards, "Hey man, I'm just looking out for you!"

Daryl stared him down through eyes narrowed to slits, waiting for him to twitch or turn away.

He did neither. The little shit-eating grin on his face just pissed Daryl off more.

The silence was thick between them. He could hear the clock ticking on the wall, counting off the passing seconds. Sweat was beading up on his forehead and his neck, slick under the collar of his shirt, but he wasn't going to be the first to back down.

Finally Johnny gave in, backing away a few steps before turning to head back to the van he'd been working on. Daryl's body relaxed a little, fingers loosening around the wrench as a breath he hadn't realized he was holding rushed out of his lungs.

He was just about to duck under the hood to get back to work when he heard Johnny's voice echo across the garage.

"I just wouldn't wanna be you if ol' Ed finds out you're knocking boots with his wife."


	5. Chapter 5

She was falling.

She knew it, recognized it, felt it happening…but there wasn't anything she could do about it.

Well, perhaps she could have just stayed away from him but she'd been enjoying their "lunch dates" more than she cared to admit even to herself. Having Ed home was as miserable as it had always been but at least she had something to look forward to every day now.

Daryl was still her bright spot in the darkness. She couldn't give that up. Wouldn't even consider it.

He wasn't much of a talker but that was okay with her. His eyes told her everything she needed to know and she was beginning to suspect he felt the same way. He wasn't experienced enough to hide it. She couldn't put a name to what they had yet, wouldn't and couldn't use the l-word, but it felt wonderful and terrifying and perfect in an awful way.

Today he'd surprised her by sneaking away from work early, catching her just before she walked out the door with his lunch in hand.

It caught her off guard but she'd been thrilled to see him standing on her front step. His lunch had been dropped by the door, forgotten as she leapt into his arms.

They'd decided to return to the scene of the crime so to speak. Her bathroom. Or more specifically, her shower.

She'd shyly admitted to him once before that she'd always wanted to try making love in the shower, not with Ed though, never with Ed, and he apparently hadn't forgotten.

She had to admit that it wasn't what she was expecting. It was far from graceful. The porcelain was slick, the air cold against their wet skin. She giggled as Daryl cursed a blue streak every time his feet slipped and slid on the tile.

But somewhere along the way, something had changed. The giggles turned into breathy sighs and moans. The air grew warmer between them and suddenly the goose bumps on her skin weren't from the cold.

She wasn't sure what brought it on, she'd never seen that side of him, but she wasn't about to question it. Not when he was grunting and panting, breath hot against her neck, with his fingers digging into her thighs and his thrusts slamming her hips into the cold shower wall.

The way he'd groaned her name, his teeth scraping across the sensitive skin of her neck…her knees went weak just thinking about it.

She was lost in her thoughts, leaning against the kitchen counter, when Ed's irate voice shattered her reverie.

"What the hell is that smell?"

She spun around, almost jumping out of her skin in surprise.

He stomped across the kitchen and ripped open the oven door, releasing a plume of dark smoke. The acrid smell of it filled the air, billowing up towards the ceiling.

She squeaked in horror, grabbing for her oven mitts to pull the ruined meatloaf out of the oven before Ed slammed the door closed again. She could feel the stinging heat of his glare on her back as she poked at the blackened lump with a fork.

"What the hell were you doing just standing around and letting my dinner burn, woman? Have you lost your goddamned mind?"

"It-it's still good-"

His rough hands on her shoulders spun her around and shoved her back against the counter. The hard edge of it jammed painfully against her spine and she knew it would leave a bruise.

Daring to glance up at his face, she saw the anger flaring in his eyes and tried to duck away. She knew what was coming but his hand cracked against her cheek before she could move away. The sharp smack seemed to echo through the silent kitchen as a throbbing pain spread through her cheek.

Tears stung at her eyes, from the pain and the humiliation, as she reached up to cover the hot, numb skin with trembling fingers.

"Stop crying, I don't wanna hear it."

She tried to choke down the tears but a little shuddering cry wrenched free of her throat as his fingers dug into her flesh so hard she thought he'd press right through to the bone.

"What did I just say?" he hissed, leaning his face in close to hers, "You wanna cry?"

She could smell the alcohol on his breath as his grip tightened around her upper arm like a vice. He jerked her forward, almost yanking her shoulder out of its socket. Her whole body trembled as she looked away, squeezing her eyes shut to hide the tears swimming behind her lids.

"I'll give you something to cry about."

He shoved her against the counter again, hard enough to slam her head back against the overhead cabinet.

Her vision faded to fuzzy gray for a moment as her skull crashed into the sturdy wood. And then he was yanking her forward by her arm, dragging her across the kitchen to the back door, not even slowing as she stumbled into a chair. Her brain was still reeling as he shoved her outside.

She toppled down the steps and landed hard on her hands and knees on the brick patio, barely noticing as it scraped at her palms. She could faintly hear Ed muttering something about staying out there until she'd learned her lesson just before the door slammed shut behind her, the lock turning with a grim finality.

And then she was alone in the quiet, cold, early evening air. The tears came then, trickling down her cheeks and splattering on the bricks to leave little wet stains. She collapsed in on herself, arms too weak to support her weight. She crumpled onto the patio as silent sobs racked her body.

She felt so alone, so helpless and useless as she curled up into the fetal position.

It seemed like hours passed as she lay there crying, too weak to even wipe the tears from her cheeks. They dried there, salty and itchy on her cheeks, as the sobbing passed.

Her face was bent close to her shirt, close enough that she imagined she could smell Daryl on it even through her stuffy nose. She remembered pulling him close before he'd left her just hours ago, wrapping her arms around his neck to kiss him goodbye. His hair had still been wet from their shower.

She thought of his gentle touch, his calloused fingers, and the way he looked at her. She just _thought_ of him and it was enough to push her to her feet.

There was already a thin layer of frost on the ground, despite it being a bit early in the year for that. It sparkled in the crisp grass, crunching under her bare feet with every step. Her toes already felt numb and her head was still spinning but at least she was upright. That was progress.

She stumbled through the yard, shivering violently more from fear than the cold. She was expecting Ed to come running after her at any moment, dragging her back into the house to finish what he'd started. She couldn't wait around for that, couldn't stay there while she could still smell Daryl on her skin.

She reached the gate, feeling along the rough wood for the lock. She hissed out loud when her bare feet touched the cold, rough concrete of the sidewalk outside.

The Wilkinson's porch light was glowing just two houses down. Jeanie was a nice woman. She'd let her in, let her use her phone.

Her knock was weak, pathetic really. But she guessed God must have been watching out for her because the door swung open almost immediately. An almost stifling wave of heat billowed out of the house and she pitched towards it automatically, shivering as Jenny helped her to a chair in the living room.

The woman was questioning her gently, fetching a spare pair of slippers and asking about calling an ambulance or the police. But Carol brushed it off, she only had one thing on her mind.

So Jeanie left her alone to use the phone, bustling off to the kitchen to make coffee, but Carol could feel the woman's eyes on her.

Her fingers trembled as she punched in the numbers. It rang once, twice, three times and she wondered if he was even home.

And then he picked up with a gruff hello and she had to fight back the tears.

"Daryl?"

She heard the faint squeaking of a chair as if he'd sat upright quickly.

"Yeah?"

"I-I didn't know who else to call," she began, trailing off as her voice cracked pathetically.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice sounding tense and concerned.

"I can't stay here," she mumbled, tears spilling down over her cheeks as she thought of Ed just a few houses away.

There was a moment of silence.

"Where are you? I'm coming."


	6. Chapter 6

He pulled up in front of her neighbor's house, pickup idling at the curb as he eyed the house uncertainly. She was in there, waiting for him. A light was burning somewhere inside, he could see it through the open curtains at the front window.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, fists clenching as his eyes landed on her house. Lights were burning there too. He didn't know yet what that bastard had done this time but he figured it must be bad. He'd seen her bruises and scars before. If it was bad enough for her to run this time, it must be pretty damn bad.

The front door swung open then, drawing his eyes back to the house he was sitting in front of. He saw Carol pause in the doorway, peering out into the darkness before hurrying down the front steps. He threw his door open as she took off across the front yard, slippers flopping on her feet.

He rounded the front of the truck and met her at the sidewalk, forced to take a step backwards as she crashed into him. He felt her arms tangle themselves around his waist as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. He heard her inhaling deeply, felt her thin body shivering under his hands.

He let her hold onto him for a moment, long enough for her shuddering to subside, before he reached up to gently peel her body off of his. He turned her towards the streetlight so he could see her face. The yellow glow was faint, casting shadows across her features, but he could just make out a raised welt in the shape of a handprint spread across her cheek.

Something shot through him, a feeling he couldn't identify. It felt like fire in his veins but it chilled him right down to the bone.

"Get in the truck and stay there," he told her roughly, moving to brush past her.

She grabbed his arm, latching on tight, "Wait! Where-where are you going?"

"I'm gonna show him how it feels to get _his_ ass beat for a change."

"What? No, don't! Please don't!" she held on tight, seemingly unwilling to let him walk away.

He stopped short, glaring at her over his shoulder, "Why? You called me to come over here! What did you expect me to do?"

She just stared up at him with her eyes as wide as saucers, dilated pupils reminding him of a startled, cornered animal.

He wrapped his hand around her wrist, fingers curling around the delicate bones, and tried to free himself from her grip without hurting her, "Come on, let me go handle it."

"No! That's not why I called you!" she refused to let go, fingers digging into his bicep until it almost hurt.

He paused, squinting down at her before looking back to her house. To the lights blazing in the windows and the man he knew was somewhere inside, probably gloating over what he'd done to her. The asshole should have been holding her, loving her, and feeling damn lucky to have her be his woman.

"Please, Daryl. Let's just go," she pleaded, voice shaky like she was on the verge of tears, "I need you right now. I need to get out of here."

_I need you_. Her words echoed through his brain, bouncing around in his skull as he stared at the little house two lots down. _He _needed to beat the shit out of her asshole husband, needed to get rid of the inexplicable rage building up inside him. But _she, _well, _she_ needed him. And that was more important.

It was an odd feeling to be needed, he thought. To have someone depending on him, looking to him to be strong. He repeated the words in his head, rolling them around and testing them out. She_ needed _him. _Him_. She needed _him._

He turned away from the house and saw relief spreading across her face, chasing the tension away from her features.

"Come on then. Let's go," he said gruffly, pulling the door open for her and offering his hand to help her scramble up into the cab of the truck.

She didn't seem to relax until he was behind the wheel again, tires squealing as he turned the truck around. She curled up against the door, knees pulled up to her chest as he drove past her house, glaring at it with all the venom he could muster. He wished the damn thing would just burn down with that asshole inside of it. A nice, slow, painful death.

It'd sure as hell make their lives easier.

* * *

He could feel her watching him as he held her hands under the faucet of his kitchen sink, letting the cold water run over the raw flesh on her palms.

He brushed his thumb over a stubborn streak of dirt, grimacing as she let out a hissing, pained breath.

"I ain't got no rubbing alcohol or bandages or nothing," he told her, shutting off the faucet and ripping off a paper towel to dab her skin dry.

"That's okay," she answered, biting her bottom lip as she watched him, "It's not that bad."

He wanted to kick himself for thinking, at a time like this, how cute she looked when she did that.

"You want something to drink?" he asked uncertainly, motioning her towards the lone worn-out sofa as he tossed the wet paper towel in the trash can.

"That would be nice," she replied, and he watched her cross the room to perch on the torn cushion with all the grace of a queen on a throne.

He knew she was too polite to say a word about the old worn-down trailer he lived in but he'd still been embarrassed to invite her inside. The place wasn't dirty or anything. Just shabby and sparse. He only had one threadbare sofa, a broken-down recliner, and a scuffed-up coffee table in the living room.

He opened the fridge and wasn't particularly surprised to find only beer and a long-expired carton of milk inside.

Returning with two bottles in hand, he grimaced as he caught her running her fingers over her reddened cheek. Looked like it was going to leave a bruise. His stomach turned, guts churning as he wondered how a man could do something like that to a woman like her. Her husband wasn't much of a man if you asked him.

She raised a brow at the beer as he dropped down onto the cushion beside her.

"S'all I got," he shrugged, "Not trying to get you liquored up or anything."

He twisted the top off the bottle before passing it to her and she accepted it with a smile, "It's okay. We both know you don't have to get me drunk."

He snorted and a jingling little laugh tumbled off her lips, warming him from head to toe. He didn't know how she could be so cheerful after what had happened to her, it just didn't seem right. Seemed like she should be scared or angry or bitter like he had always been.

She tipped back the bottle and took a gulp, frowning as she swallowed it down.

"Ugh, oh this stuff is awful," she sputtered, wiping her lips delicately with the back of her hand.

He felt a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as she held the bottle away from her, wrinkling her nose up at it in disgust.

"So?" he prompted her after a moment, leaning back against the couch and tipping his own bottle back.

"What?"

He shook his head, "What happened?"

She looked away quickly, eyes on the floor, "It doesn't matter."

"The hell it don't."

"I'm fine. It's okay," she insisted, eyes pleading.

"It ain't _okay_. Ain't nothing _okay_ about it," he replied sharply, temper flaring.

How could she defend him? How could she say what he did to her was okay?

"Really, I don't want to talk about it," she murmured, twisting the bottle back and forth between her hands, "It was my fault, it was just-"

He slammed his bottle down onto the coffee table, nearly taking a chunk out of the scarred wood finish, "Don't give me that shit!"

"Honestly, I-I burned dinner and-"

He couldn't believe it. That asshole had her thinking she deserved to be hit. Consumed with anger over what her husband had done to her, he was on his feet and leaning down close to her face before he realized what he was doing.

"I don't wanna hear excuses! Fuck that! You don't deserve it and you know it!"

She flinched away, looking just like a whipped dog. It was only for a second, if he'd been blinking he would have missed it, but it was more than enough. He deflated instantly, the anger melting away as he straightened up, his shoulders feeling stiff.

The woman had just been beat up by her husband and now he was getting in her face and screaming at her. He was so stupid and useless. She deserved so much better than his sorry ass. He just wanted to disappear, to have the ground open up and swallow him whole.

He sank down onto the couch next to her, covering his face with his hands and scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms to stop the stinging behind his lids. The house was silent and he wished he knew how to take it back, to make it all better.

He dropped his hands to look over at her with bleary eyes. Her gaze was locked on the floor, her jaw tight as if she was trying to hold back tears. She looked so small and sad and she'd said she _needed him_.

He reached out for her slowly, fingers trembling. When she didn't flinch away, he brushed his fingertips over her chin and along her jawline, tilting her face around towards his. Her clear gray eyes met his, red and puffy around the edges from the tears he knew she'd shed before.

"I wouldn't hit ya," he murmured, his voice sounding hoarse as he traced his fingertips, light as a feather, over her swollen cheek.

Her skin was hot to the touch and he knew how it must feel. How it must tingle and burn and, deep down, ache.

"I know," she told him softly, her voice thick and husky, "I know."

Her eyes fluttered closed, shiny and wet at the corners as stray tears escaped from behind her lids. He wiped them away with his thumbs automatically and watched her cheeks lift in a little smile that had his stomach feeling like it was all twisted up in a knot.

And then she was leaning forward and his hands were sliding around to the back of her head and her lips were on his.

He was hesitant at first, afraid of scaring her or hurting her. But then the tip of her tongue traced across his bottom lip, hot and wet, and he heard himself groan.

He melted into her, relaxing into the curves that already become so familiar, into the touch he found he needed as much as wanted.


	7. Chapter 7

When she first opened her eyes, she felt a little surge of panic.

She was lying in a strange bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling and clutching tattered sheets to her bare chest. But then the man beside her shifted restlessly in his sleep, his breathing slow and steady, and it all came rushing back.

Her body was flooded with warmth as she recalled his face hovering over hers, his body moving against her as his breath came short and fast. His eyes had been filled with such simple, raw desire and adoration that tears had filled her eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. Despite the situation, he noticed immediately.

He'd stopped to wipe them away, his lips soft against her forehead as he asked her what was the matter, what he was doing wrong. She wasn't able to tell him, couldn't make her voice work, so she just shook her head and settled for urging him on with her hands on his hips. She was content to sigh his name and hold on tight as he found his rhythm again, shivering as he groaned her name.

And now the moonlight was streaming through the window, turning his room and everything in it a soft, pearly blue.

He'd been embarrassed about his house. He never said it but she could tell. He was particularly mortified over his sheets. They were faded blue and white stripes, worn paper thin from too many trips through a washing machine, and she figured he'd probably had them since he was a kid.

She took a moment to look around his room, taking it all in. She hadn't been able to before. She'd been too distracted by his lips and hands, by the smell of his hair and the warmth of his skin.

There was nothing personal to see. No childhood posters or trophies, no family photos. Nothing. Not even a mounted deer head on the wall like she might have expected. Just a bed, a dresser, and a closed closet door.

She felt a sudden pang of sympathy and wondered what his childhood must have been like. She was sure he had no happy memories of it, no desire to revisit it like most. It probably wasn't a safe haven or a comfortable memory.

She rolled over on her side to face his back, wishing she had known him before…before everything. She wondered why life had happened the way it did, why it had to be so unfair to the two of them.

Was everything they'd been through a punishment? Or a test?

Her eyes trailed down the line of his neck, watching the tendons pull and strain as he lifted his head to adjust his pillow. She took in his broad, folded shoulders and the curve of his spine before finally focusing on the silvery purple scars.

They slashed angrily across his back, some overlapping, some set apart from the others. She was drawn to them, compelled to run her fingers over the largest one. The flesh was raised, uneven under her fingertips, and she yearned to soothe the pain no matter how old it was.

Suddenly he stiffened, his shoulders tensing as her touch dragged him from his sleep.

Worried he'd be embarrassed, she scooted forward to plaster her bare front to his back, sliding her arm around his chest and tucking her chin into the crook of his neck. He grunted and reached up to wrap his hand around her wrist, pinning her hand in place over his heart. She smiled as his calloused fingers covered hers, curling around her palm to squeeze it gently.

She pressed a kiss against his neck, breathing in the scent of him as he turned his head to look at her through squinted, sleepy eyes.

She squeezed him tight, aching to protect him from a threat that had long since passed. She knew it was a silly thought, really. If a man as strong as Daryl hadn't been able to stop the abuse, to protect himself, what could anyone as weak as her expect to do?

* * *

The light had faded to grey when she awoke again and she knew it was early morning. She was still wrapped around Daryl, could still feel the steady beating of his heart under her palm.

It felt so right, like it always did with him. She realized how easy it would be to stay with him. To really _be_ with him instead of just playing house. To lay down beside him every night and wake up next to him every morning. To pack his lunch every day and cook him dinner every evening. To be the one he came home to. To…to have his children.

No. She pushed that thought aside almost as soon as it occurred to her. She couldn't think like that. It was too painful.

And through that opening, through that gaping wound, the thought of Ed rushed in. It was like having a bucket of ice water tossed into her face.

Ed would never allow it, that fairytale she'd found herself dreaming about. It seemed like his mission in life was to make sure she was unhappy. And he always knew just how to get to her, knew where the punches would hurt the most. Only, now her weakest spot wasn't anywhere on her body. It was curled up beside her.

She knew what would happen if she didn't go home. When Ed found out where she was, and he _would_ find out, there would be hell to pay. Daryl would never back down and neither would Ed. And she had no doubt that Daryl was tough but he wasn't cruel. Not like Ed. Ed had years of experience in making people suffer and Daryl had already suffered enough.

The thought of Ed hurting Daryl, pummeling him with his fists and making him bleed, made her feel so sick that she rolled out of bed to run for the bathroom. But the nausea passed almost as soon as she was upright, the cool morning air raising chill bumps on her bare skin.

She thought of Ed pacing the floor at home, growing more and more enraged as the seconds ticked by. She was almost blinded by a sudden panic, overwhelmed with an urgent need to get home and try to make it better.

She knew the longer she waited, the worse it would be.

She was dressed and prodding around in his kitchen when he emerged from the bedroom, yawning and buttoning up his jeans. He looked pleased to see her there, a tight little smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Morning," he mumbled hoarsely, wiping the sleep from his eyes before stretching his arms high over his head, rolling his neck around on his shoulders to get out all the kinks.

She leaned on the counter and watched him with a smile, appreciating the way his skin stretched tight over the muscles in his shoulders, "Morning. Sleep good?"

He nodded once, that little smile widening almost imperceptibly as he added shyly, "Kinda nice seeing you in my kitchen."

Warmth spread across her cheeks and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"I thought about cooking you something…" she started, then trailed off as he bent to retrieve his shirt from the floor where it had landed the night before.

"Ain't nothing around here to cook but I can take you out to breakfast," he said, shrugging on his shirt and glancing down to button it up.

"That'd be nice but-" she began, then hesitated as he looked up and fixed her with a curious stare, "Now that you're up, I better be getting home."

He froze, eyes widening briefly before they narrowed into slits. She could see the gears turning in his head, could see his temper flaring.

"You mean to tell me you're going back?" he took a furious step towards her then drew up short, almost visibly restraining himself even though the kitchen counter was still between them, "After what that asshole did to you, you're going back to him? You got a death wish or something?"

She swallowed hard, immediately opening her mouth to defend herself then shutting it again when she couldn't find anything to say.

"'Cause you know he ain't never gonna stop. It's only gonna get worse," he said bitterly, like he was recalling his own experience, "You want me to just let you go back there, knowing what's gonna happen? Knowing what he's gonna do to you?"

When she didn't reply immediately, his fingers returned to the buttons on his shirt, fumbling and awkward in his anger. She heard him curse under his breath as he struggled with them.

Eye stinging, she wrapped her arms around herself, "I-I don't have any choice. I don't know what else to do!"

"Goddammit, just stay here!" he exploded, almost ripping off a button as he threw his hands up in frustration.

She stared at him for a moment, filled with an almost painful longing to do just that. It sounded so good. Too good to be true, she thought, as the image of Ed standing over a broken, bloodied Daryl flashed through her head. It could never last.

She shook her head slowly, watching his anger fade to an expression of defeat. She had to look away from the torment in his eyes before it overwhelmed her.

His head dropped forward, shoulders slumping as she said softly, "You know I can't do that."

She watched him suck in a sharp breath, squaring his shoulders, and it was if that old, familiar wall was back in place between them. The one she'd spent so much time breaking down. He headed for the door without meeting her eyes, hands scrounging around in his pockets to dig out his keys.

"Yeah. Come on then, I'll take you home."

* * *

The drive across town to her house was silent. Tense. It seemed like they were the only people out on the road at this time of morning. The streets were lonely and empty except for a wispy fog hanging just over the asphalt.

He wouldn't even look at her as he rolled to a stop just around the corner from her house, where Ed couldn't see them if he happened to be looking out the window.

She should have never involved him in her life. She'd known it was wrong, had known it was stupid that day in her bathroom. If only she had been strong, if only she had some measure of self-control. If only she'd been able to stay away from him and ignore the promise of happiness.

The thought of going home to Ed made her shoulders slump forward automatically. It felt like the whole weight of her world was crushing down on her, making her head spin and her chest ache. She wasn't ready to let go but she was out of time.

Her fingers trembled as she reached to open the door, throat burning and aching with unshed tears. She slid out of the cab of the truck on rubbery legs, turning back to see him staring at his clenched hands on the steering wheel. She waited but he still wouldn't look at her.

"I-" she began, stopping as her voice broke, "I'm sorry."

His jaw clenched tighter and she could see a muscle twitching and fluttering under the skin as if he was grinding his teeth together. He nodded shortly, sharply, but still didn't look up.

As she walked away, she couldn't resist turning back for one more look, feeling a painful tugging at her heart as if it were chained to his and protesting the distance between them. He was looking at her now, watching her through the windshield with a stony expression. She longed to run back to him, to scramble up into the cab and snuggle into his side. To ride away into the sunrise and live happily ever after.

But this was no fairytale.

Shivering from the chill in the morning air, she forced her leaden feet to move on, to move towards home and whatever awaited her.


	8. Chapter 8

It had been two weeks since she'd left him. Two endless, miserable weeks that felt like a goddamn year.

He could understand why she'd gone. Hell, he knew he was no prize. She deserved a whole lot better than what he could give her.

Hell, if he was honest with himself, he could understand why she'd gone back to her husband. It wasn't like he'd ever tried to get away when his old man was still around. Anybody that hadn't walked in his shoes would have thought he must have liked it or something but he'd just been too beat down, too scared to do anything but shut up and take it. He'd thought she was stronger than that, stronger than he had been, but still he understood.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

So he wore his anger like a coat, closing it tight around himself to keep out the pain. He drank too much and didn't eat enough and spent all his time being pissed off at everything around him. He stomped through the woods and shot at anything that moved but it gave him none of his usual satisfaction.

If anything, the silence left him more frustrated and more aware of how suddenly alone he felt. It had never bothered him before; he wasn't the type to need people. But now he dreaded going home to a dark, empty house every evening.

Because every night, when he lay down alone, he couldn't escape her. Couldn't escape the worry and the fear and the pain. He wondered if she was okay. He agonized over whether she was lying in bed asleep or crumpled on the floor, bleeding and crying.

If he was a praying man, he would have prayed for her just for the comfort of being able to do something. Anything. But he'd long since given up on that nonsense. It never did anybody a lick of good. His mama had prayed all the damn time but it didn't save her or him or Merle.

In one drunken moment of weakness, long after midnight about a week in, he'd picked up the phone to call her. Just to see if she was okay, he told himself. On the first try he'd managed to dial three numbers before hanging up. On the second, he slammed the receiver down after one ring. And on the third, after telling himself to man up and taking another swig of whiskey, he let it ring until someone picked up.

But it wasn't her soft, familiar voice on the other end. It was a screaming, irate man and he couldn't hang up fast enough. In a fit of useless rage, he'd knocked the phone to the floor before finally kicking the whole damn table over. It didn't help, didn't make him feel any better, but it was more satisfying than doing nothing.

No matter how hard he tried to forget, he saw her in everything. In every flower growing wild on the side of the road that he longed to pick for her just to see her smile. In the steam on the bathroom mirror that reminded him of pinning her body to a slick tile wall and running his hands over her hot, slippery skin.

He watched the clock all day at work, willing it to tick a little faster towards the 12, but she never showed up waving a brown paper bag and it just made the day feel longer.

He was so busy keeping his eye on the time that he didn't even notice Johnny sneaking around until the man was leaning on the van he'd been working on.

"Damn, boy. I thought you took my advice but you must really have shit for brains."

He looked up to see the man spinning a set of keys around his finger and looking infuriatingly smug. He ducked his head back under the hood, unwilling to be baited into another fight. He didn't have the energy.

"Cause I saw Mrs. Peletier was back."

His head snapped up so fast that he felt a twinge in his neck, "What'd you say?"

"Said I saw _Mrs._ Peletier was back," he drawled, placing especial emphasis on the first part of her name, "Saw her hanging around just now. I gotta say, she wasn't looking too good. She was wearing some damn big sunglasses like she was trying to hide a black eye."

Johnny didn't seem to notice that Daryl had frozen stiff as a cold wave of pure fury engulfed him, coursing through his veins and pounding in his head so hard it made his teeth ache.

Johnny rambled on, oblivious, "I told you that you didn't wanna fuck with Ed Peletier, didn't I? You oughta stay away, it'd be better for-"

"Where was she?" Daryl cut him off in mid-sentence, yanking the man up violently by the front of his shirt when he didn't answer and slamming his body into the van, "I said where the hell was she?"

"Out-out in the parking lot! By-by your truck!" Johnny managed to stutter out, slumping back against the vehicle as Daryl shoved him aside.

He was off and running before the man could say another word, wiping frantically at his hands with his grease rag.

He pushed the heavy metal door open with a grunt, shielding his eyes as the brilliant, white afternoon sun blinded him. Heart pounding in his ears, he searched the mostly empty parking lot for any sign of her.

But he knew she was already gone. He could feel it.

His truck sat alone across the lot, the flat, black paint dull in the gleaming sunlight. He was drawn to it like a moth to the flame, his heavy feet leading him there almost of their own volition.

Running his hand across the scorching hot hood, he took a deep breath and thought he could still smell her in the air. Roses, and that smell that always lingered on her skin. The one that made him feel like he was drunk whenever he buried his face in her neck and inhaled it.

Or maybe it was just his imagination, just wishful thinking.

He glanced through the window and saw a package sitting in the driver's seat. Clear plastic shrink-wrapped around folded navy blue material. Curious, he threw open the door and paused as a little scrap of white paper fluttered out onto the ground. Stooping to retrieve it, he turned it over and saw a note scribbled on it in tight, neat handwriting.

_You needed new sheets. Hope you don't mind._

At the bottom, she'd drawn a little heart.

* * *

When he left work that day, he'd planned on getting something to eat and driving straight home. That was it.

He'd gone through the drive-through to order food he didn't even want and then he'd spent a good hour driving around aimlessly, trying to pretend he didn't have a plan, a method to his madness. Her crumpled-up note was burning a hole in his pocket; he thought he could feel it there against his hip.

He barely even saw the road, driving on autopilot as he wondered what that little heart meant. If it meant anything. A sad song came on the radio, all mournful words and weeping twin fiddles, and he switched it off with a muttered curse.

It was getting late, the sun had set and the sky was growing dark. Streetlights flickered on one by one ahead of him as he found himself driving down a familiar street, not at all surprised to have ended up there.

He stopped in front of the house across the street and down one lot from hers. Squinting at her place through the windshield, he could tell a light was on inside but the curtains were drawn and he couldn't see a damn thing.

As he put the truck in park, he told himself he'd just sit there for a minute and eat his food.

But when he killed the engine, leaving the food to grow cold in its greasy bag on the seat beside him, he had to admit that he was in it for the long haul.

If he could just see her, get a glance of her at the window for just a second…if he could just see that she was okay, he knew he could go home.

But there was nothing. No shadows, no silhouettes, nothing. No matter how long or how hard he stared, he saw nothing.

He must have drifted off, somehow comforted by the idea of her nearness, because when he looked at the clock again the neon green numbers were flashing 11:46. There was a soft patter on the roof of the truck and a low rumble somewhere in the distance.

It was raining, he realized, as he sat up from where he'd slumped under the wheel with his hand on top of the sheets she'd bought him. Of course it was.

His eyes automatically sought out her house and he saw that it had gone dark. The whole neighborhood was as still as a cemetery. Blue lightning streaked across the sky and he heard another clap of thunder as the rain picked up. It seemed like the storm was getting closer.

He felt an odd heaviness in the pit of his stomach as he reluctantly started up the old truck, flicking on the windshield wipers to clear away the silver rivulets of rain streaming down the glass.

He'd been stupid to think this would help, that sitting outside her house like some kind of creep would make him feel better. Somehow, knowing she was inside, just out of reach like some kind of princess trapped in a fucking tower, made it even worse.

Heaving a resigned, frustrated sigh, he turned the truck around for the drive home. His head was aching, the shiny black asphalt swimming in the yellow glow of his headlights. The rain was coming down so hard he could hardly see ten feet ahead of him.

He knew he'd go home, climb in bed, and stare at the ceiling for hours until he finally fell asleep. Then he'd probably dream about her, like he did almost all the time now. If he was lucky, it would be one of the good dreams, where she'd be panting underneath him or just sitting beside him, smiling and touching his knee.

If he was unlucky, and more often than not he was, well…his head ached too much to think about that.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: This chapter is pretty dark and may be a little disturbing to some. The next (and last) chapter will probably be posted on Friday. Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing, you have no idea how much I appreciate it! **

* * *

After she left Daryl's new sheets in his truck, she hadn't been able to make herself go home. She knew Ed wasn't around, that he was at work, but she couldn't bear to go home just yet.

So she'd gone to the grocery store all the way across town, somehow comforted by the quiet, anonymous camaraderie of pushing a cart up and down long aisles filled with countless distracted strangers. Strangers who wouldn't question her about why she was wearing big, dark sunglasses; who wouldn't know that her husband had socked her in the face for accidentally shrinking his favorite shirt.

It had been so hard not to go inside and see Daryl but she knew it was better this way. It would be impossible to leave him again and, even though it was starting to fade, she couldn't let him see the black eye. She knew it would only upset him and she couldn't stand to see him upset.

She'd gone to buy him the sheets as soon as she could get away. Ed had been furious about her not coming home that night, even after she'd convinced him she'd stayed with Jeanie. For two weeks, he'd been so enraged and suspicious that she'd been afraid to leave the house. It felt like he was always watching her, like _someone_ was always watching her, and she wondered if he'd enlisted his friends for some kind of "guard duty". It wouldn't surprise her.

But Daryl's thin, tattered sheets had been wearing on her mind. She thought of her time with him between those sheets far too often, thought of how embarrassed he'd been by them and most everything else from his past. Somehow, that had evolved to imagining him shivering under them when it got cold, with no one around to hold him and keep him warm, and she knew she had to risk it.

She tried not to wonder how he'd react, if he'd be angry about the sheets and the note. She felt a little silly when she remembered the little heart she'd drawn at the bottom, scribbling it in with blue pen, but she'd been unable to resist. It was both the least and the most she could manage.

Maybe he wouldn't even notice.

She'd tried to keep her chin up and stay strong, sneaking over to the garage just before lunch when she knew he'd be busy. But when she'd opened the door to his truck and leaned in to set down the sheets, she'd been overwhelmed by the smell of him. The not unpleasant smell of his sweat mixed with the sharp scent of grease and the sweetness of tobacco. It had been all around her, enveloping her and taking her mind back to every time she'd pressed her nose and lips against his skin, inhaling him as she pressed kisses across his body.

She'd thought of that week at her house, perhaps the happiest of her life, and how he'd smelled fresh and soapy every night with his damp hair and trembling fingers. Oh, it was still fresh in her mind. She could still close her eyes and be taken right back there again.

She was so lost in thought that she didn't even see Ed's truck at the curb when she parked the Cherokee in the drive. She was so busy torturing herself with thoughts of Daryl, of his hands and lips and eyes, that she didn't even notice Ed standing in the kitchen until she almost ran right into him.

She almost jumped out of her skin at the sight of him standing in front of her, imposing and deathly still. The bag of groceries fell from her arms, the jar of spaghetti sauce shattering on the tile floor as cans of beans and corn rolled away.

"Where have you been?"

His voice came suddenly, harsh in the tense silence.

"Uh, grocery shopping," she answered automatically, her voice shaking as she motioned weakly to the bag on the floor.

"All day?"

She froze, brain scrambling to figure out here he was going with this.

"'Cause I got an interesting call while I was at work today. A friend of mine said he saw you at the garage over on College Street."

She felt her heart starting to pound, throbbing so hard against her ribs that she thought they'd break.

"Something wrong with the Cherokee?" he asked calmly, eyes narrowing as they focused in on her face.

She tried to keep her expression neutral, fought to keep her calm. Her mouth was so dry she had to lick her lips before she could speak.

"Uh, the brakes?"

"Try again."

She shuddered at the cold certainty in his voice, at the way blue veins bulged in his hands as his fists clenched at his sides.

"I hear you've been hanging around there a lot. Heard there's some kid, some young guy that works there…"

He trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken, hanging heavy over her head like a storm cloud.

"Now, I know you ain't that stupid."

He took a step forward, forcing her, with his body, to move backwards.

She stumbled over one of the spilled cans and his hands shot out to grab her up by the arms, his forehead pressing hard against hers as he screamed, "Tell me you ain't that stupid!"

She could feel little flecks of his spittle misting across her skin. She tried to squirm away from his reddened face, from his bulging eyes, but his grip tightened on her arms.

"No," she gasped, wincing as his blunt fingernails tore at her skin, "No, I'm not stupid."

He jerked her forwards against his chest and her head snapped backwards. She felt a twinge in her neck but it was nothing compared to the crushing, bruising pain of his hands around her arms.

"You calling my friend a liar?" he hissed, jaw clenched tight.

She shook her head, quickly looking away. He released one of her arms and reached up to force her to look him in the eye.

"Say something, bitch. Tell me you ain't been fucking around behind my back."

His fingertips tightened on her jaw, pressing into the bone until hot tears sprang to her eyes. But she wouldn't say a word. She would never tell him about Daryl and she would never lie about him either. What they'd had was too perfect to talk about, too special to pretend it never happened. Ed didn't even deserve to know Daryl's name.

So she just kept her mouth shut.

* * *

It seemed like he ranted and raved for hours, questioning her and slapping her across the face every time she didn't answer. She gritted her teeth and took it; pretending tears weren't streaming down her cheeks, burning the raw, red flesh.

He shoved her into a chair then knocked her out of it. Cornered her against the kitchen cabinets and then shoved her to the floor.

It seemed to last for hours but she wasn't sure. It could have been just fifteen minutes. At first she'd been nearly blinded by an all-consuming, all-encompassing fear that shook her right to the core. But as the hours passed and his words blurred into fuzzy nonsense, the fear ebbed away and left only exhaustion and weakness in its wake.

When he realized she was ignoring him, he'd hit her hard enough to knock her out.

She woke up on the floor, sprawled out next to the splattered spaghetti sauce.

Through the window above her, she could see it had grown dark outside. When she stood on unsteady, wobbling legs, the clock told her it was after 11.

"'Bout time you got your ass up."

She spun around to see Ed sitting in his recliner in the dark, drinking a beer. He leaned forward, out of the shadows, and the look on his face was ugly.

"You ready to talk to me now?"

She swallowed the thick lump of fear in her throat and crossed her arms tight over her chest, wrapping them around herself like a coat.

It was difficult to find her voice but she finally managed to speak, "Just-just let me go take a shower. Let me go clean up and I'll talk."

His eyes narrowed but he finally nodded brusquely and leaned back in his chair. She could feel his gaze on her back as she turned and headed down the hallway.

All she could think about was the bathroom window. It was small but she knew she could squeeze through it. If she locked the door and turned on the water so he couldn't hear her, she could be gone before he even realized something was amiss.

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, low and ominous. Her heart was pounding so hard in her ears that she didn't hear the footsteps behind her. She was halfway across the bedroom, hand outstretched to open the bathroom door, when his heavy hands landed on her shoulders.

She let out of soft cry of surprise as he jerked her backwards and tossed her onto the bed like she was a rag doll. The world was spinning, her head swimming as she landed hard on the mattress, paralyzed with fear as he climbed on top of her.

She whimpered when he slapped her hard across the face, the impact of his hand against her cheekbone feeling as thought it'd pop her eye right out of its socket.

"You think I'm a fucking idiot?" he growled, rearing back to slap her again, his knees digging into her ribs, "You thought you could get away from me? Thought you could run?"

She was sobbing then, sobbing and begging as his fingers wrapped around her neck.

He leaned over her, his lips close to her ear as he hissed, "Did you fuck him in our house?"

She gasped as his grip tightened, trying desperately to squirm away, trying desperately to breathe.

"Did you fuck him in our bed? Right here on our sheets?"

His face loomed into view, his eyes burning dark and empty, and she knew she was going to die. And maybe she deserved it; maybe it was her punishment, her penance for breaking God's law so flagrantly, so carelessly, and enjoying it so much.

_Fuck that! You don't deserve it, not any of it, and you know it!_

She could hear Daryl's voice as clearly as if he were in the room. She could almost smell him, could almost feel him there beside her, urging her to fight harder. He would want her to fight. She _had_ to. She had to survive and get back to him and find some way to stay with him forever. She couldn't die without telling him how much she loved him.

And in that desperate, breathless moment she realized how true that was. She loved him.

Struggling violently, like an animal caught in a trap, she tried frantically to suck air into her lungs but none was forthcoming. Ed's meaty fingers were crushing her throat so hard that he was gritting his teeth, grunting with the effort of choking her.

She had to get him off of her, had to breathe. She flung out of her hand, feeling around wildly for something, anything. There was nothing but the cold wood of the night table under her fingers until they bumped into the heavy plastic alarm clock that she looked at every single morning when she woke up.

The world was already growing dim around the edges but with the last of her strength, she gripped the clock in her hand as tightly as she could and brought it crashing down against Ed's temple with all the force she could muster.

He howled in pain, slumping over onto the bed beside her as she sucked in desperate, gasping breaths. The alarm clock dropped onto her stomach, flashing 11:46 at her in glowing red numbers.

Lightning flashed outside, briefly lighting up the whole room with a sickly blue glow before it was thrown into darkness again. A sharp clap of thunder followed immediately, rattling the windows in their frames. She could almost feel the trembling in her bones.

And then he was on top of her again, snarling like a rabid dog. Blood dripped down his face and onto hers, hot and wet and black in the darkness. She tried to scream but nothing came out as his hands closed around her throat again. She bucked and writhed, trying to force him off of her.

Her last thoughts were of Daryl, that he would be proud. At least she'd tried.

And then it all went black.


	10. Chapter 10

He woke with the sun after a long night of tossing and turning, plagued with a strange, sickening dread he couldn't explain.

The storm had raged on outside, high winds shaking his trailer, until just before dawn when the clouds had abruptly cleared. He thought he'd heard a tree come down sometime in the night which meant a whole hell of a lot of work for him when the yard dried up.

He knew he might as well get up, get ready, and get his ass to work but he couldn't bring himself to get out of bed. He'd barely gotten any sleep and his head was still aching. Only, now the throbbing behind his eyes seemed to be in time with the beating of his heart.

Across the room, his new sheets sat on his dresser still wrapped in their plastic packaging. He hadn't been able to bring himself to change them, to throw away the sheets she'd slept between. The sheets they'd been tangled up in when he thought she might really, finally be his.

Or maybe he'd thought he was hers. He wasn't sure. All he knew was that thinking like that made him a sappy, sentimental asshole. Merle would have kicked his ass six ways to Sunday if he'd been around and hell, maybe that was what he needed.

He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, inhaling deeply, but it didn't smell like her anymore.

In the living room, the phone rang.

He groaned, dragging his other pillow over his head to drown out the sound.

It didn't work. He heard it ring again and cursed under his breath, throwing his legs over the side of the bed to stand up.

The ringing continued, sounding ever more insistent if that was possible, as he pulled on his jeans and shuffled across his bedroom.

By the time he stumbled into the living room, tangled up in his t-shirt, the thing was practically vibrating off the table and demanding that he answer it.

Heart and head pounding, he finally picked it up with a gruff, "Yeah?"

"D-Daryl?"

The voice was on the other end was hoarse, raspy and trembling. He didn't even recognize it until she burst into tears, her sobbing sounding weak and tinny down the line. That strange, sickly feeling turned into pure, cold fear.

He didn't waste time asking questions.

The phone fell from his hands, dangling by the cord, as he shot out his front door and stumbled down the front steps in a mad dash to his pickup.

* * *

Debris from the previous night's storm littered the highway. He swerved to avoid a few downed limbs, crushing errant pinecones under his tires as he sped through the misty pink and grey morning. He probably broke the land speed record and a whole book full of traffic laws on the way to her house but he just couldn't get there fast enough. Even if the cops had tried to stop him, they would have never been able to catch him.

He rolled to a stop in her driveway, just behind her Cherokee. A million terrible scenarios were running through his head. Her husband could be waiting for him, it could be some kind of trap. He could have killed her right after she made the call. She could be laying on the floor right now, dead eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling.

He threw the door open, stumbling over his own feet in his hurry to get out and get to her. But as he rounded the front of the pickup and headed for the house, a squirming, niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach told him to stop, to go back.

The seat frame scratched at his wrist as he felt around underneath it but finally his fingers hit cold, hard metal and he dragged Merle's old Colt out from under the seat. Another look at the dark, foreboding house had him tucking it in his waistband as he approached the front door.

He didn't get a chance to knock, she must have been looking out for him because the door opened just a crack, barely enough for an eye to peek out of the shadows.

"Carol?"

He swallowed hard, pushing the door open further as he took a hesitant step forward.

She turned away from him immediately, away from the weak, early morning sunshine pouring in on her. He had to duck around in front of her, holding her by the shoulders to still her, before he could get a good look at the damage.

And it was bad. Real bad.

His stomach turned at the sight of her split lip, swollen nose, and bruised eyes. Purple hand prints stained the pale skin of her neck and upper arms. He could only imagine what was hidden by her clothing.

"Fuck," he hissed between clenched teeth, his temper soaring straight through the roof and into outer space as she cowered before him, "Fuck, where is that son of a bitch? I'll kill him."

She shrank away, wrapping her arms tight around herself, and he wanted to kick himself. Instead, he put his fist through the wall. The crunch of bone against plaster was deafening in the quiet room as he opened a gaping hole that did nothing to soothe him. His knuckles throbbed with a dull ache.

He heard a soft, muffled mewling sound and turned to find her covering her face with her hands. The rage boiling inside of him seemed to cool, dissipating in the face of her tears. His shoulders sagged.

She looked so small. It was like that night on his couch all over again; she needed him and he always fucked up and scared her.

He reached for her hesitantly, his fingers brushing against her shoulder. She didn't flinch, didn't move away. In fact, she moved into him, clinging to his chest as he slid his arms around her waist. She melted into him, fingers grasping at his shirt as if she was trying to get closer. As if she couldn't get close enough.

He felt his heart aching, twisting painfully inside him as she sobbed against his neck, her tears burning hot on his skin. He held her close, one hand resting gently on the back of her neck. He didn't know what to say. It would probably be better if he didn't say anything at all. So he buried his face in her soft, short hair, nuzzling his nose and chin against the top of her head.

"He found out about us," she rasped out, sounding almost hysterical as she rambled on, "I-I was so scared when I woke up and he was gone. He took all the keys with him. He must have gone to work but I thought he'd gone to kill you and I just couldn't stand the thought of it because I realized how much I love you and I couldn't even face the idea of losing-"

She froze, seeming to realize what she'd said at the same moment it sank in for him. The breath rushed out of his lungs in a short, surprised huff and she squirmed around in his arms, lifting her head to meet his eyes. And then her trembling hands were on either side of his face, soft and cool against his overheated skin.

"You-you don't have to love me back or anything, I just-"

"I do," he interrupted her, realizing as the words left his lips that they were true.

He'd never loved anyone before, outside of that obligatory loyalty he felt for his family, but he knew what he felt for her had to be love. It had consumed him completely, leaving no room for any other possibility.

He didn't even realize that he was searching her face for some kind of sign, for something he couldn't name, until he found it in the small, warm smile she gave him. It was a shaky, pained little grin that pulled at the split in her lip but it was all he needed. He wanted to kiss her but he knew it would start that little cut bleeding again so he settled for pressing his lips against her forehead.

"Come on," he murmured, feeling her lashes brush against his chin as her eyes fluttered close, "Let's get out of here."

He felt her pat his cheek, felt her thumb brushing against the whiskers he hadn't bothered to shave in days. And then the warmth of her body against his was gone.

"I can't," she sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes as she slipped out of his arms, "Not yet."

She was standing straighter now, looking taller. Less vulnerable. Stronger.

He stared at her for a long, silent moment, unable to process her words.

"What?"

"Not yet," she repeated, turning away from him and heading down the hallway.

He was frozen to the spot for a moment, dumbstruck. But the sight of her walking away pushed him into action and he found himself marching after her.

"That's twice now you've called me crying 'cause he beat the shit out of you," he ranted and raved, following her down the hallway, "and now you're saying you-you love me but you mean to tell me that you still ain't-"

He stopped short, the angry words dying on his lips as he stepped into the bedroom she shared with her husband. There, on the bed, was an open suitcase.

"Oh," he said stupidly, looking up in time to see her trying to hide her amused expression.

Relief flooded through him. Relief and a light, bubbly, giddy feeling that rose up through his chest and made him want to laugh and sweep her up into his arms.

"I just need to pack a few things," she told him, throwing open drawers left and right, "I don't know if I'll ever be able to come back for my stuff."

She tossed a shirt into the suitcase and his eyes followed it, catching on something strange on the bed. He took a step closer, dragging back the blankets to get a better look.

"And I need you to help me find my necklace," she continued, rummaging through her underwear drawer, "It must have gotten lost last night."

He barely heard her, distracted by the dark splatter of blood on the rumpled white bed sheets.

"It was my grandmother's…the gold cross one, you know? Daryl?"

He looked up to find her standing there, watching him, with a t-shirt and a pair of shorts in her hands. Her eyes followed his gaze to the blood on the sheets, the cracked plastic alarm clock, and he saw her wince.

He had to force the words out, "He did that to you?"

He watched her expression change, saw her chin lift as she tossed the clothes into her suitcase.

"No, I did that."

"What?"

"I did that to him," she stated flatly, turning back to the open drawer.

He felt a rush of pride at her words, at the coldness in her tone that told him she'd had enough.

"That's my girl," he muttered under his breath, dropping to his knees on the floor to look for that damn necklace.

She shot him a little smile over her shoulder that he acknowledged with a dip of his head, unable to tear his eyes away from her until she turned back to her dresser. Still feeling giddy, he ducked his head under the bed, lifting the skirting to peer into the dusty darkness.

* * *

They worked in silence, except for the opening and closing of drawers and his grunts of annoyance when the necklace wasn't forthcoming.

Just as he heard her click the suitcase shut, his fingers closed around shimmering gold, hidden in the shadows between the bed and the nightstand.

She beamed at him when he stood, the necklace dangling from his fingers, and turned her back to him, bending her head forward in invitation. Eyeing the elegant length and curve of her neck uncertainly, he cleared his throat and draped the cross over her front, his awkward fingers fumbling with the tiny clasp.

He breathed a sigh of relief when it caught and she murmured a soft "thank you". His fingers lingered there, brushing over the cool metal of the chain to touch her warm, soft skin.

She let out a breathy little sigh that had him sliding his arms around her waist to pull her back against his chest. Her ribs were so fine and delicate, like a little bird's bones under his hands. He could feel her heartbeat, strong and steady, beneath them.

He pressed his lips against her shoulder, just where her cotton shirt met her bare skin, and hesitantly kissed his way up the line of her neck, lips light as a feather as they brushed over the angry bruises. She exhaled and leaned her head back on his shoulder, her hands running along his arms to wrap themselves around his wrists, holding them there against her chest.

He was intoxicated by her warmth, by the smell of her skin. He'd been afraid he'd never touch her or taste her again and now he didn't care that this wasn't the time; that they should be getting the hell out of there. She was his, she loved him, and the world was suddenly less cold, less frightening because of it.

She turned her head to capture his lips but the moment was shattered by the slamming of a car door somewhere just outside.

Their eyes met, wide with fear, as they both froze.

He was hit with a gut-wrenching sense of déjà vu. They'd been here before, right here in this very room, but the stakes were so much higher now. They were different people stuck in the same situation.

She scrambled away from him as they heard the front door open, then slam shut hard enough to rattle the walls. There was a pause, a moment of silence in which he thought he could hear his own heart beating, and then footsteps.

Heavy footsteps. They echoed through the house like gunshots and it was as though he was nine years old all over again, hiding in his bed, trembling under his sheets and waiting for his father to stumble drunkenly down the hall to his bedroom.

A bolt of fear shot through him and, on its heels, a towering wave of rage so intense it was frightening. He trembled as it crashed down over him, pounding through his chest and thundering in his ears.

He felt Carol at his elbow, her face a mask of panic as she whispered, "Come on, hurry! We can hide in the bathroom. I think we can get out the window-"

He thought about it for a moment, remembered huddling with her in a tub full of cold water back when it all started. He wasn't doing that again.

"I ain't hiding this time," he grunted, shrugging her pleading hands off his shoulders.

She was still begging him but he couldn't hear her, couldn't hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stepped out into the hallway.

And there he was. The man who'd always been there, in the shadows at the back of his mind, as a faceless phantom screaming outside a bathroom door. He never thought he'd see him like this; out in the open, face to face, in the daylight.

The man stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of Daryl, the blood seeming to drain from his face. He looked stunned. Daryl could practically see the gears turning. He recognized the look of understanding as it dawned across Ed's ugly, contorted face. The blood rushed back in, tinting the man's cheeks a purple-tinged red. Bulging eyes narrowed, meaty lips curled into a sneer.

And then they were both moving, steps quickening as they drew closer together. Daryl could see the dried blood caked around a cut on the man's temple, the broken veins in his bloodshot eyes.

The meaty lips parted to speak but Daryl's fist absorbed the words, crashing into the man's teeth with enough force to split his knuckles.

The man reeled backwards, clawing at his face as blood filled his mouth and spilled out between gaping lips. He was still spitting blood and teeth when Daryl clocked him again, a cheap shot while his head was turned. He didn't give him a chance to so much as raise his fist.

Ed sank to the floor like a bag of rocks and Daryl went down on top of him, straddling his chest as Merle's gun appeared in his hand as if by magic.

He was blinded by rage, a red mist creeping in behind his eyes, as he brought the base of the pistol down on the man's face over and over again. The man writhed under him, struggling at first, before falling still. Daryl barely registered the sickening crunch of the man's nose breaking under the unforgiving metal. Blood splattered everywhere; on him, on the floor, on the walls. But he didn't stop.

There was a screaming in his ears, a tugging at his arm that he ignored until the rage subsided enough for him to realize it was Carol. Carol screaming, Carol trying to pull him away.

The mist faded enough for him to see the bloody, mangled mess he'd made of Ed's face, to hear the heavy rasping of his own breathing. The man was limp beneath him, gurgling blood as his body tried to suck in air.

But it wasn't enough. He thought of Carol's tears and bruises, of his own scars, and found himself standing over the man with his finger on the trigger. He itched to pull it. It would be so easy to put a bullet in the man's head, to see his brains splatter on the hallway floor. To end this once and for all.

He wasn't like his brother. For all the fights he'd been in, he'd never killed a man. But now he understood how people did it. Why they did it. He wanted to kill Ed, wanted to watch the life drain out of him.

"Daryl, please don't. Please. You're better than this, I know you are. Let's just go!"

She was still there beside him, tugging on his elbow and pleading with him. He tore his eyes away from Ed and saw tears rolling down her bruised face, her suitcase clenched tight in her free hand.

And that was what did it. She was packed and ready to go; ready to get out of there and be with him. They could be free.

With one last long look at Ed, he forced himself to put the gun away, paying no mind to the blood smeared all over it. She grabbed his hand immediately, threading her fingers through his and tugging him towards the door.

He wanted to kick the man in the ribs or stomp his face in or spit on his body. But Carol was there beside him, bringing him back, bringing him down. His legs felt a little unsteady but as soon as he was out of the house, breathing in the cool morning air with the warm sunlight on his face and her hand in his, his head cleared.

He opened the door for her, holding her suitcase as she scrambled up into the cab of his pickup, immediately scooting over to the middle seat. He slammed the door behind her, shooting one last look at her house as he rounded the front of the truck. He half-expected Ed to come running out the door and put a bullet in his back but it didn't happen. That asshole was down for the count.

She curled up against his side, suitcase resting against her legs on the floorboard, as he backed down the drive. He could feel that she was still trembling but then, so was he. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, tucking her in close to his body, and she relaxed against him. Her hand splayed across his chest, over his heart, and he squeezed her shoulder, keeping his eyes on the road as he pressed a kiss against the top of her head.

They didn't speak. There was nothing to say, it had all been said and seen and done. She had all she needed in her little suitcase and he had all he needed, there in the seat beside him.

She lifted her head to smile at him as they blew by the county limit sign, headed out of town at eighty miles per hour.

They had everything they needed. They'd figure the rest out later.


End file.
